so many times i like to stay up alone and play on my phone almost never interacting cause i surely end attacking some poor lonely dude just trying to talk with no tact at all and i take it the wrong way and then i react with the burning hot fury of a thousand dying suns and nobody cares cause they know i’m not one they care to fuck with but then I pull a will smith and I become legend while I lean off of the edge and I realize that my name is not known all that well and that makes me jump back from the pit of hell the fire is hot but not yet i am not ready to go cause there’s yet so many here to show what i got…

what i got aint alot it’s really quite small and now you’ll hear my prefrontal cortex speak it’s not me not at all. ive tried my whole life to just shut that bitch down but that bitch got my throat and now im the clown…and i’m in a small car that I don’t want to drive with about six or 7 big tall lady guys all dressed in suits made of primary colors and yeah how they laugh but they hate one another and while they are laughing get stabbed in the back by their very best friend such a vicious attack but it’s all okay in their urban decay and their mac and their fucking too faced smashbox brigade.

ok…I’m now back to me and I can see that this e tv is not for me. Id rather the forensic files put in piles for me to swallow won’t be so hollow as the shit that’s on and everyone follows.

I’ve never been a leader or a follower, i’ve always been a swallower…to be honest.

just taking it in, with much chagrin and always much to my displeasure.

But see now I’m almost to the end of my life, I’ll never again be anyone’s wife, or anyone’s friend so a bitch cannot grin while I’m pulling that knife…and I’m honestly thankful to not do that again…I’ve had enough…this life has been rough and quite thankfully few were the cuffs that bound my arms and my legs but they still clamped down on my head and honestly if i could go back and choose which one I’d lose…

I’d guess it’d be my freedom cause to do it again, I won’t pretend that my heart I would refuse.

I had to break up with my best friend and mortal enemy, Vodka, January 22, 2017. I went to sleep about 2:30 that Sunday morning only to wake up to gut-wrenching pain and a very high fever. The fever was so high that my teeth were chattering and smashing together so hard, that if I were to think about it at the time, I might have thought they were all going to break. But I couldn’t really think about anything except the fever and the pain. I had to get up and pee once, and the walk to the bathroom, from one end of the 20-ft camper I live in, to the other, was absolutely freezing cold and excruciating. I felt an immense surge of relief, after the voyage was made and I was safely back in my bed under about 6 blankets. The relief was slight, to say the most.

I experienced those same symptoms the entire day, symptoms that probably would’ve driven many others to the emergency room, but if I had so much difficulty getting to the bathroom, there was no way I was getting in a car and going to the hospital. NO WAY. Instead, I lay in my bed and waited. I drank as much water as I could, because drinking water required me to not only move, but come out from under the covers. I was able to go to sleep pretty early with the help of my other friend, Xanax, who I really do have a loving relationship with because there is no abuse, whatsoever, one to another. She only helps me when I need her help.

I woke up the next morning about 3 o’clock, soaking wet. My fever had broken and all of my blankets were wet, the ones closest to my body were soaked, the sheets beneath me were soaked, my clothes were drenched and so was my pillow. The smell was purely awful. It smelled of infection and death with a pinch of urine. One of my first thoughts in my groggy state of mind was that I peed the bed, but I didn’t really care about that, I was just angry that I was still cold and now my blankets and clothes were wet.

I’m not sure about this because I am not one, but I think at that point a non-depressed person would have gotten up and changed their bed clothes. I didn’t, I kept on laying in them. I think I moved the top blanket to the bottom, but other than that, I just continue to lie in it and wait for it to dry, feeling sick and irritated.

I made it to work later that morning. I didn’t bathe before I went, but that was mostly due to the fact that the shower doesn’t work in this camper and I’m forced to walk next door to my oldest son’s father’s house and bathe there and I don’t like to go over there.

I ran a low-grade fever all day that would intermittently, raise then break, then cause the sweats. I hoped and prayed I didn’t stink. I have never been a person with very active odor glands, and I have never in my life, save a few, smelled any type of body odor on myself. So, that’s how I assuaged the fear of my stink. I probably did, because I was sweating out nothing but infectious toxins, but no one at work said anything. Not saying that would be something they would speak directly to me about, anyway. That would just be good fodder for gossip.

Today it is three days later and I have not had another drink. I’m still doing the sweat thing, but now it is being caused by the detox. My kidneys still hurt, but not as bad. My body is aching, slightly, all over. I am feeling random sharp pains in different places in my body. These pains will come out-of-the-blue and hit me like a knife in places like one of my ears, or in some part of my leg, arm, back, or shoulder.

I feel much, much better, physically, than I did Sunday or Monday, but now I am alone with Major Depressive Disorder with seemingly no relief. I know I don’t want to drink anymore because at this point there is no denying that I have worn out my kidneys and thought of weekly dialysis scares the shit out of me.

I never had great kidneys to begin with, kidney disease runs rampant on my father’s side of the family, I never met my paternal grandfather because he died eight years before I was born, as a result of kidney failure. I have had problems with my kidneys before I ever began to drink six years ago.

So here I sit, in this tiny little camper, me and my big dog, who is just as depressed as I am, and I wonder if this is what I’m left with? This is no life. This is just breathing…staying alive, but not really being alive. At least alcohol brought some sort of change to the landscape of my thought patterns.

I think about how I won’t be as fun or funny, anymore, without Vodka. Or how I won’t do anymore really cool shit like make international news 2 years in a row. I think about how my YouTube channel which is finally making me money is going to starve because each of the videos were fueled by depression and vodka. Now there’s no vodka.

I feel like I won’t have the confidence or “liquid courage” to do or say whatever I feel like doing or saying. Yeah, I realize it will be replaced with a different confidence, one that I hated not having with the vodka….the kind that allows me to get into a vehicle and go out in public if I need to do so. But the fact is, I probably won’t even do that, because there is nothing I want to do.

So, my question now remains…which is worse? Only time will tell, I suppose.

The anxiety is so thick that if I could remove it from my body, put it in a pot and cook it on the stove, it would make a sturdy roux, but it would taste like straight fuck.

I feel like I am losing my mind at a very rapid pace.

Too much change going on….

I suppose I do not handle change well, anymore.

I used to be able to deal with it, well, in my twenties. Back then, my life was nothing but constant change. But then I got settled down and in and it felt good. I got used to the monotony of doing the same things every day.

I got used to be being a mom, a damn good one. I got used to taking care of my family. I got used to washing dishes and clothes and cooking supper and cleaning the kitchen.

I had to stop drinking but I had to start back, cause I’m always fucking feeling like I’m running in a pack of only fucking one and I got no fuckin gun, and got no fuckin fun and when I was young my dad called me son I thought it didn’t bother me until i was past thirty then I started realizing that shit was kinda dirty, i wasn’t just a girl, I was a pretty ass girl, who had in her palm the whole entire world but i didn’t even know it and all i did was blow it and when I turned 18 …DOPE was only chosen …my whole fucking life been a slow sUiCiDe all out in the open I didn’t try to hide…or so I thought but I was really fucking wrong and Now I know all the words to my poor swan song that so far never really seems to END and when I think it is HAS that really means BEGIN a whole new chapter with ONE LESS FRIEND and i’m trapped with some lions and I’m in their den and they didn’t invite cause I’m NOT so polite sometimes I’m rowdy and sometimes I fight and when that shit happens you better run from my sight… demons coming outta me tends to fright so run away fast RUN AWAY FAST and run to the light I’ll meet ya when you get there after you fall from your

The struggle brings the knowledge and the knowledge brings the fruit and the fruit is what you make of it, and my fruit is mostly truth.
Honesty is good but in many ways is bad cause when you start speaking it ears don’t get glad in fact they really hate it honesty is a force for looks inside, that same exact shit is the stuff that makes us hide. ..wearing a mask on every single day, different masks for different people even talking different ways. I was born with several masks, used to wear them all the time, few I have left and this face is mostly mine.

I think out of all the repurcussions stemming from my childhood, the one that pisses me off the most is that I buried all of my talents.

I am a very creative person, I always have been. I am both musically and artistically inclined. I knew I was good at music because my parents forced me to be in the band in Jr. high, and I was excellent at it. But because they forced me to do it, I became angry with it and I began to hate it, vehemently.

By the time I reached 8th grade, I had multiple superior awards from Solo and Ensemble festivals. I could play the clarinet like nobody’s business, and I never even practiced, at home.

The summer before 8th grade, I tried out for drum major and I won. I did practice my ass off to win that prize, but once football season hit and I was out on the field, or leading the band in the bleachers, I quit.

I only was drum major for one game. It was just way too much spotlight on me leading the band nerds, when all I really wanted was to be free of that dorky shit and hang out with the cool kids.

I could kick my ass for that now….and I guess I do…and I guess I have, for a long time.

My step-mom finally relented on band when I got to high school, and I was set free. The only reason they let me out of band was because they intended for me to go to LSU and there were several course requirements that had to be met and being in band would take away two credits a year that I could be putting toward Physics and Biology 2.

So…fast forward to High School Graduation…

I graduated with honors and I was, honestly, mind-blown about that. I ended my high-school career with a 3.67 GPA, which was completely due to my diligent studying 9th and 10th grades. By the time I got to the middle of my junior year, I was sneaking out, drinking, smoking weed and not giving a fuck about school. I have no idea how I passed Algebra 2 or Physics my senior year.

But I did.

I was excited to go to college, but I wanted to get as far away from my parent’s house as possible. I got accepted to every state school to which I applied and when I sat down with my dad to discuss where I would be attending he said to me, “Son, you have two choices. You can either go to LSU or you can go to LSU.”

My blood boiled.

He said not only could I only go to LSU, but that I could not live in a dorm room, or anything cool like that, I would be living at Salem’s Lot and commuting.

I can’t lie, though, once I settled in my first semester at LSU, I loved it. The school is huge, I didn’t know ANYONE, there were very friendly squirrels in the Quad, and I really, really enjoyed that one semester.

I lived with and was married to a female malignant narcissist for 12 years who has BPD and HPD. I endured significant trauma, gas lighting, degrading comments and was left feeling worthless. Now I'm out, living with C-PTSD and watching my kids be treated like textbook Golden Child and Scapegoat children. My daily struggle to get them the hell away from her claws. Have questions, comments, advice? Ask, tell, share. I am here to recover.